Stitched Together Again
by Temporary Dysphoria
Summary: Goemon does as he is told. He watches his friend set up his makeshift surgery, and he feels a sudden urge to tell him everything. About how he was too weak, a failure. About how he deserves every single one of these punishments for not being dedicated enough to his craft – for not being the best he could be. The words are on the tip of his tongue but he can't seem to spill them.


Being stuck in a safehouse, miles from any towns he's familiar with is not one Jigen's favourite ways to spend his time. When he wants to bunker down, he wants it to be in a place he knows like the back of his hand. He's washed his clothes, restocked the fridge with the basics and has managed to scrounge a local newspaper to keep an eye on the news. He's been there for three days when Goemon turns up out of the blue.

The samurai is dressed in normal clothes for once and it throws Jigen off kilter. Goemon is hard enough to take seriously in his traditional garments, let alone in jeans and a sweater. When Goemon pulls the bloodied mess of his hakama from the backpack Jigen's heart sinks. He lifts a corner of the fabric as Goemon sets the garment across the short table.

"Do we have sewing supplies here Jigen?" His voice grates over the first words he's spoken since he turned up so many hours ago. Jigen hums noncommittally and goes to the kitchen to check. He finds green tea, but no sewing supplies. He chucks two bags into mugs and flicks the kettle on before returning to Goemon.

The hakama looks even worse spread out, Jigen shudders to think what Goemon looks like underneath the long sleeves he's wearing in its stead. He passes a steaming mug of green tea to the contemplative samurai and sits beside him.

"We'll have to go out to get sewing things."

Goemon nods stiffly. He sips his tea quietly – eyes closed. Jigen stretches and takes a sip from his own mug. He's never understood the appeal of green tea, but it makes a nice change from coffee every now and then.

They walk to the store. Jigen gets a packet of cigarettes and waits while Goemon inspects the various threads and needles. He looks like he's moving stiffer, even by his usual standards. Jigen grabs a curved needle and some silk thread to add to the collection before he gets to the register.

* * *

They pay for the supplies and walk back to the safe house in silence. Goemon is sore in so many areas he doesn't know where to start, he feels like a fraud in these heavy western clothes, and he feels a fresh rush of guilt as his gaze lands upon his bloody hakama again.

He requires more discipline. A failure such as this will not happen again. He will repair the damage to his equipment, and then he will repair the damage to his pride. He gathers the bloody cloth in his hands, he requires a bath. He feels Jigen's eyes on him as he exits the room. He was not expecting anyone to be present at the safehouse – he had assumed Jigen had followed Lupin across the continent.

Jigen's presence was interrupting his process. It was distracting. Although, he hadn't asked any of the questions Goemon had expected. He was grateful for that. His legs ache as he kneels beside the tub to run the water. A slow stream is all he needs to start with, the blood is dried and caked, cleaning is going to take some time. He notices his hands shaking minutely as he pulls the cumbersome sleeves above his elbows. He takes a deep breath – now is not the time. He has a task to be completed.

* * *

Jigen decides to give Goemon an hour before he'll go and check on him to make sure he hasn't drowned himself or something equally dramatic. He lights a smoke before he wanders up the hallway – he's not going to sneak up on the samurai, no matter how injured he might be – he likes his beard the way it is.

He raps on the wall as he gets near the bathroom, waiting for an answer of some description. When he gets none he pokes his head around the doorway, "You all right Goemon?"

Goemon is kneeling next to the tub. The water is a rusty colour, but from what he can see of the hakama its looking much better. Jigen leans against the door, he's not going to cross the threshold without Goemon's permission, it doesn't seem right.

He wonders why Goemon came here of all places. There was no way he could've known that Jigen was going to be here. The samurai looks smaller without his usual clothes, more vulnerable. The bloody water swirls down the drain like a little whirlpool. For the first time in the last four days Jigen is glad he didn't follow Lupin to the airport.

"I," Goemon begins hesitantly, "I may require some assistance Jigen." He turns to the gunman and Jigen sees. He's not sure what his face looks like but it must look terrifying because the stoic samurai actually recoils back slightly.

"Who the fuck?" Jigen strides into the room, right into Goemon's space, "What happened man?"

Goemon purses his lips as large hands push the sweater sleeves further past his elbows. Red lacerations are a stark contrast to the rest of his pale skin. He winces as Jigen's finger ghost along his marred skin. Jigen wants to punch something. He grinds his teeth down on the butt of his cigarette.

"Drop the rest of the clothes."

The samurai opens his mouth to say something but shuts it again as he meets Jigen's gaze. He lifts his arms and pulls the sweater off in one motion like a bandaid. The urge to punch something is growing stronger again as Jigen takes full stock of Goemon's injuries. He'd had his suspicions, but they had been well and truly blown out of the water.

"What happened?" he asks again, only half expecting an answer from the stubborn man. True to form Goemon shakes his head. This only irritates Jigen more. He turns on his heel. "I want you in nothing but briefs by the time I get back." He doesn't wait to see if Goemon acknowledges him.

* * *

When Jigen returns he appears to be calmer. Goemon does not feel calmer. He feels more exposed in these western briefs than he does in his fundoshi. He doesn't miss the way Jigen's gaze rakes over him, doesn't miss the flash of anger in those eyes as he shrugs off his own jacket and washes his hands.

"Some of these could really use a hospital you know."

Goemon shakes his head, "No, no hospitals."

Jigen grumbles something as he pulls out thread. He motions to the closed toilet seat with his head, "Sit. I'll do what I can."

Goemon does as he is told. He watches his friend set up his makeshift surgery, and he feels a sudden urge to tell him everything. About how he was too weak, a failure. About how he deserves every single one of these punishments for not being dedicated enough to his craft – for not being the best he could be. The words are on the tip of his tongue but he can't seem to spill them. Jigen meets his gaze for a long moment. There's no anger in that gaze anymore, only melancholy. He puts his beloved hat on the counter and picks up the needle. The moment for confession is gone.

The first stitch hurts. Goemon hisses out an exhale and Jigen mutters, "Shoulda got some painkillers too."

Goemon reaches for Jigen's shoulder, squeezes, "It is fine. Continue."

Jigen's hand covers his own briefly and squeezes back, "Think of something nice." Then the hand is gone and he pushes the needle into skin again.

Goemon closes his eyes, not because of the pain – because he wants to etch this memory firmly in his mind. He wants to remember what it feels like to have Jigen's rough calloused hands working with such precision on his own skin. He wants to remember the cadence of his slow breathing, each one held as the needle pulls flesh together – the shaky exhale as he steadies his hand for the next insertion. He wants to remember what it feels like to have Jigen stitch him back together, in more ways than one in this strange city where he never expected to find help – where he was supposed to be alone except for his grief and wounded pride.

* * *

_Goemon is running. There's an assailant – he can sense him, he's not far now. He's not sure why but he needs to get away. He can't stay here. He runs until his legs burn, his pursuer is still nearby though. He sees a cliff face ahead barring his way. He gets to the base and searches frantically for handholds. He squats and his thighs ache. He clears the vertical leap barely and his feet hit solid ground again. He sees a shadow in the air and he starts to run again. Then the ground swallows him up. He flails desperately but his limbs touch nothing but air. He lands on his back with a crunch and his sword is wrenched from his grasp. He tries to move but his limbs won't obey him. He turns his head and he's faced with his own reflection, two of them, three of them. He can't breathe, they're everywhere. A sharp scraping noise is in his periphery. Like nails on a chalkboard. He squeezes his eyes shut but the noise is still there, getting closer, closer. By some miracle it stops. Blessed silence. A deep baritone echos around him, "What a disgrace you have become Goemon Ishikawa." He opens his eyes, uses the last of his energy to try and will his stubborn body into movement. Zantetsuken is reflected on every surface, he can't see where the real one is. He looks up, cranes his neck and looks directly at his own face. The mouth opens and his own voice booms around him, "Your ancestors would be ashamed. You. Are. Weak." Goemon hears the whistle of cold steel seconds before his shoulder bursts into flames. Goemon screams._

Goemon opens his eyes with a start. He should have known better than to try and meditate. Everything was still raw. He feels stretched thin, fragile like china, prone to breaking at any accidental drop.

Jigen is slouched in the armchair across from him. He might be awake, its hard to tell with his hat so low. There's an unlit cigarette in his mouth – probably asleep then. Goemon adjusts his seat, his legs uncomfortable from being in the one position for too long. His gaze is drawn back to the scruffy gunman. Jigen's hair is getting long, it's nearly as long as Goemon's own, brushing the top of his shoulders in a shaggy mess.

"I got somethin' on my face or somethin'?"

Jigen's gruff voice startles Goemon. He looks down, embarrassed. Shakes his head, "no, I was merely thinking."

Jigen makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat and stretches. His hat gets tipped back as his arms fold behind his head, long legs folded over each other in front of him. He looks annoyed, eyebrows drawn together, arms tense even though hes trying to look relaxed.

Things get lost in translation with the two of them. Goemon knows this. It seems to happen more with Jigen – which is counterintuitive seeing as Jigen is the one who he resonates the most with.

"Something is wrong?" It's a statement posed as a question. Goemon doesn't beat around the bush.

"Mmm"

"What is it?"

"Why don't you take a wild guess?"

Jigen's voice is clipped. Goemon thinks – tries to work back.

"I don't..."

Jigen sits forward abruptly, breaking Goemon's train of thought. His chin rests on his hands, gaze direct and piercing, "I was supposed to be on holiday."

Goemon doesn't follow, " I...am sorry for intruding?"

"No. Fuck, it's not that – "

"Then why do you not just tell me!"

Goemon regrets raising his voice immediately. Jigen sags back into the armchair with a loud sigh.

"I've just had to spend half a day stitching up one of my good friends, I think I'm well within my rights to be a little bit upset about that," he said, eyes locked on the ceiling fan.

So that was it. He was feeling guilty.

"It is none of your concern Jigen"

"The hell it's none of my concern."

Goemon forced himself to breath out, "It is none of your – "

"Bullshit," the gunman snapped, "it became my concern when you turned up cut into ribbons looking like death warmed up."

"I would have been fine."

Jigen glared at him with a look that could cut stone, "Pardon me, but I highly doubt that."

"It was a merely a small setback in the grand scheme of things."

"A small – fuck me Goemon." The coffee table wobbles as the gunman stands, bumping his knees in his haste, "I'm going out."

The door slams and Goemon feels the ice cold tendrils of something uncomfortable start to lace themselves through his gut.

* * *

When Jigen returns he reeks of whiskey. Goemon looks up from his seat on the sofa. He's been working on clearing his mind with varying degrees of success while the gunman has been gone. Jigen flops onto the sofa next to him. Goemon tries to gauge how much he's had to drink – he's still fairly coordinated so he can't be that bad. His hat falls to the floor as he leans his head back. Goemon reassesses, maybe he is slightly more intoxicated than he first thought. He wrinkles his nose as the sharp smell of alcohol assaults his senses. His expression makes Jigen huff out a soft laugh.

"I'm not drunk, if that's what you're thinkin'"

Goemon raises a sceptical eyebrow, "You certainly smell like you are."

"Got into a small disagreement. I came off on the wrong end of a half full bottle."

"And you did not shoot the perpetrator?"

"Didn't take my gun."

Jigen stretches lazily, shoulders popping loudly in the quiet room. He places one arm gingerly around Goemon's shoulder. He tenses before he can stop himself. The way Jigen pulls away feels like a stab in the gut. The gunman exhales.

"I'm sorry Goemon," he says softly. His eyes are closed, face drawn.

"You need not apologise. You have done nothing wrong."

Goemon feels uncomfortably aware of his body. His fingers tap an unconscious rhythm against his knee, toes curl and uncurl with no real purpose. He needs to move but he doesn't want to leave Jigen's side just yet. He finds a suitable alternative when he looks towards the kitchen, "Would you like some tea?"

That opens Jigen's eyes, "Uh yeah, I might go have a quick shower actually, I kinda reek."

Goemon nods in agreement, "You do."

He feels Jigen bump his shoulder softly, he makes a mock offended expression, "Rude, Goemon."

He watches Jigen walk away and the tension in his gut starts to unfurl. Things are not good yet, but they are better.

* * *

Goemon gets lost in thought as he waits for the tea to brew. Jigen is waiting for him when he returns. He looks – and smells much better now. Goemon puts the cups down, in almost a mirror of earlier in the day. Jigen takes one and sips slowly as Goemon sits himself beside the gunman.

They sip in silence until Jigen clears his throat.

"Look man," he puts the cup down and turns to face Goemon head on. "You scared me. If you don't wanna tell me what's happened – I get that – some things don't need to be repeated. I just – "

"You were angry."

"I was – because I realised you were planning on coming here because you thought no-one would be here. You've got people that care about you Goemon, don't throw that away – and don't underestimate it."

Everything hits Goemon at once. He looks at Jigen and he sees. He sees how stressed the other man has been. How long has it been since it was just the two of them? Too long. All of a sudden he feels overwhelmed. Jigen's arms are wide, one on the back of the sofa, the other hand on his knee. Goemon leans towards the space between them. He's barely moved when Jigen moves forward, folding his arms around him. He's enveloped in the scent of Jigen's cologne, and that lingering tobacco smell that never seems to quite go away. How has he gone without this for so long? Jigen's fingers thread through his hair, massaging the back of his neck. The scratchy beard tickles his shoulder where Jigen's chin is resting.

"It is I, who is sorry," he mutters into Jigen's chest.

Jigen's hand runs up and down his spine softly, before he replies in kind to Goemons neck, "You don't have to do things alone anymore."

Goemon hugs Jigen tighter to him, wants to press himself against him until there's no discernible difference between where the gunman ends, and the samurai begins. At last he feels some semblance of peace, with Jigen's heartbeat in one ear, and his steady breath in the other.


End file.
